


Cleave

by Mad_Maudlin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anchor Fic, Canon-Typical Gore, M/M, Martin is having a difficult time, basira is so done with their shit, canon-typical references to eye gouging, diy rituals, i am prepared to pretend this show stopped at 159 for shipping purposes, in before 160, jonah is the smuggest smug, not 160 compliant, soul bonds, technically self harm, watcher's crown speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-12 22:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21233840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: Once they escape the Lonely, Jon and Martin face the Watcher's Crown.





	Cleave

**Author's Note:**

> I am writing this from before the release of MAG 160. I am not a patron and do not get early access. If you spoil me in the comments I will fling myself through the Internet to pinch you.

As Jon lead him from the Lonely, shaking and stumbling, Martin began to feel cold again. He'd read something, once, about hypothermia: how at a certain stage, victims stopped even shivering as their bodies shut down. He wondered if this was something like that, the psychic numbness lifting just to remind him how much he hurt. Jon's hand wrapped around his was the only warmth in the world, and it took all his concentration to keep one foot in front of the next as they blundered through the fog.

"Are you all right?" Jon asked quietly, without the pealing force of _what do you see? _

"Fine," Martin said, because it wasn't as if there was anything to do about it. "Just tired. And cold."

Jon squeezed his hand with a gentleness Martin had never expected from him. "Just a bit farther."

Martin met Jon's eyes — and he was _all eyes, _just like the woman had said, the Lonely stripping away some of the camouflage. Jon's eyes were large, and almost luminous in the twilight fog, except where his huge black pupils swallowed light and knowledge. But that was Jon, as much as the warm hand curled in his, as much as the desperate spark of needy, helpless love that illuminated him from the inside out.

_What do you see? _Jon had asked, and Martin saw all of it. All of him. _You, Jon. I see you. _

He squeezed Jon's hand in return, and they kept walking.

There was a stretch of time when even the illusory sea went silent, when the ground beneath their feet was no longer slick pebbles, or anything else, either. A time when the only other thing in the world was Jon's hand in his, and Martin held his breath and kept walking. Eventually the fog dissipated to shadow, though, and the sound of their footsteps echoed on smooth stone floors. Back in the world. Back in the tunnels.

"Oh," Jon said softly, and let go of Martin's hand.

Martin froze, unmoored and disoriented in the darkness; just for a moment, though, before his sluggish thoughts caught up to the situation. He'd never stopped carrying a torch, after Prentiss, and he switched it on now, faintly surprised it wasn't waterlogged from his dip in an otherworldly sea. They had come out at the foot of the Panopticon again, even though he remembered Peter taking him from the top; he could hear Jon's footsteps receding up the stairs, and thought, a bit sourly, that of _course _he'd have to climb the damn thing all over again.

The tower was a good three stories high. As Martin climbed, he heard Jon conversing with El — Jonah, that is, though it was only on the last turn that they were loud enough for him to hear. "...end this idiotic cycle of rituals and ruin," Jonah was saying, softly illuminated by Peter's electric lantern. "Bring all the Dread Powers to heel."

"All but one," Jon said hoarsely.

"Yes." Jonah's stolen voice dripped with satisfaction. "That was one point where Robert and I diverged. He meant to seal them all down here, locked in eternal balance, but I was already planning for—"

"The Watcher's Crown," Martin blurted as he came up the last few steps. Jonah was standing by his original body, casual as anything; Jon stood halfway between them, nearly vibrating in place with controlled tension.

"Ah, yeah," Jonah said. "Peter did slip you that one, didn't he? And he had the nerve to accuse _me _of cheating."

"All the Entities brought through at once," Jon said, but there was a dreamy quality to his raspy voice — was he remembering the statement, or just Knowing the truth? "Thirteen fears, enslaved to the Eye, so it can glut itself on their infinite variety."

"Exactly so," Jonah said. "The world need not be made so very different, with so many forces in play. They'll balance each other out, more or less. One hopes more, but, well —" He showed his teeth a bit, though it wasn't a grin. "We won't really know until we try, will we?"

And Jon, jerkily, took a step towards the withered corpse at the center of the Panopticon.

"Wha — Jon, _no," _Martin blurted, and grabbed for Jon's arm. "What are you doing?"

"What he was made for." It shouldn't be possible for anyone to sound so pleased with himself, but Jonah was already an impossible thing. "The Archivist is taking his place in the Panopticon. The ritual is almost over."

"What ritual?" Martin demanded. "There wasn't any—"

"'Statement of so-and-so, regarding such-and-such.'" Jonah's mouth moved, but it was Jon who spoke, like a bizarre ventriolquism. "'Statement begins. Statement ends.'"

Martin almost protested, but then again, he'd just heard Peter explain the Lonely ritual as a housing scam. Why couldn't the Watcher's Crown be an archive, every statement a sacrifice? Jon tried to take another step forward, but Martin held onto him with both hands. "Jon, no. You don't have to do this."

"Oh, it's far too late to stop this now, Martin," Jonah chided. "This is what the Archivist was meant for. This is where he belongs."

But the Archivist was also Jon Sims, also a person, and Martin didn't give up that easily. He wrapped both arms around Jon and tried to drag him backwards, towards the stairs, out of this place: it almost worked. Maybe if Martin had just thrown him over his shoulder it would've done the trick. Every muscle in Jon's body was rigid, balanced between some compulsion to complete the ritual and his own desire to flee (please let him want to flee) and he was too spellbound to catch himself when Martin yanked him off-balance.

Jon fell, without making a sound except the little _whuff _of forcefully exhaled air. He clawed at the stones of the Panopticon, as if that would let him hold himself in place.

Jonah _tsked _at them from his position next to the chair. "One doesn't keep a god _waiting, _Jonathan."

One of Jon's hands shot out, like he was going to pull himself towards Jonah, towards the chair. Martin did the first thing he could think of, which was sit on him. He was a full head taller and probably weighed nearly three times as much as Jon, and even if the battle of wills was lost, he wasn't going to bet against gravity. "You don't have to do this, Jon," Martin said again. "We can just go."

Jon whimpered; he was shaking with strain. "Please, Martin," Jonah said. "These theatrics are beneath you. Count yourself lucky that you get to watch the world remade, and get out of our way."

"No," Martin said.

Jonah sighed, and from his pocket he withdrew a small, stubby revolver. "I wasn't asking."

Jon's other hand shot out, nails tearing as he clawed at the stone floor; Martin covered it with his own hand, before Jon scratched himself bloody. In doing so, his line of sight fell on the discarded knife, the knife that Peter had brought — a long and wicked thing, probably military-issue of some kind, judging by the carbon-black coating. It blended in nicely with the shadows on the floor … not that he should count on an avatar of the _Eye _not noticing something. But the knife was within reach. He could —

He could what? Try to stab Jonah, and get shot in the process? Try to take the throne before Jon did, as Peter had intended — become the lonely watchman he'd been groomed to be? He couldn't even laugh at the irony. He looked down at Jon, trembling and sweating and squirming, and pictured himself trying to cut out — but they didn't know if it would work, they didn't know if it would kill him.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking _fair, _to come so close and then have to make this choice. He couldn't let Jon do it. He couldn't hurt Jon, his anchor against the Lonely's frozen tides. He'd come down here with the intention of sacrifice himself, and now that he had a reason _not _to—

Jon opened his mouth, though it seemed to take some effort. "I. I'll. Do it."

"Jon, no," Martin blurted, squeezing the thin wrist in his hand.

Jonah lowered the revolver, but didn't put it away. "I believe the Archivist has made his wishes clear, Martin."

_"No." _Martin twisted to the side, so he could look Jon in the eyes — such big eyes, and so very dark, more pupil than white. (If the motion put him closer to the knife, well. Well.) "Jon, you have a choice."

But Jon was looking past him, at Jonah. "Don't hurt him," he gritted out. "I'll do it. If. Martin lives."

(A knife in the eye might have hurt less.)

"Well, I can't make any promises," Jonah said, amused and sickening. "But I think the Ceaseless Watcher has enough influence over him to bring him safely into the new world. Provided he _gets out of the way."_

Martin did no such thing. He looked at where their hands were joined, his thick, blunt fingers twined with Jon's slender ones. Jon had found him in the Lonely, Jon — Jon had just offered to trade the _world _for Martin's safety.

Martin had been ready to die for him. He supposed he could risk living for him, too.

"Can I," he asked, mouth suddenly dry. "Can I have a minute?"

Jonah sighed explosively. "Yes, yes, make your last feverish pledges…"

Martin shifted his weight off Jon, so they could look each other in the face. In the process, he snagged the knife with his shoe and pulled it towards them. Jon actually seemed a bit less tense now that he'd made his choice, as if the Eye had relaxed its iron pull to give them this.

"Jon, it doesn't have to be this way," Martin said, soft and low, as he turned Jon's hand over so they were gripping each other palm-to-palm again. Like how they'd left the lonely.

"I know," Jon said. "But I don't … I don't think there's a happy ending for me, now. And I'm not worth dying for."

"And I am?"

Jon met his eyes, voracious and adoring and afraid. "Yes."

Martin swallowed. Fairchild had said the rituals were all made up, were based on whatever felt _right. _If a housing block or a research institute or a dance could all be rituals, then so could this. Maybe all it took was a symbol and a choice. "Jon," Martin said quietly, evenly, as he took the knife in his hand. "What do you see?"

Jon froze, staring at him, staring _into _him and seeing him and knowing every atom. "You, Martin," he said on an exhale. "Just you."

_I'm sorry, _Martin thought, and hoped Jon could see that, too.

Then he drove the knife through their joined hands, pinning them both to the floor.

* * *

For a moment Jon was drowning, swept up in the deluge of knowledge that sourced through his mind — of rituals, of reasons, of all the careful work Jonah Magnus had done to ensure his failure of 1868 would not be repeated. Of all the efforts Jonah had gone to just to cultivate a perfect Archivist.

For a moment Jon was torn in two, between his boundless hunger and the cost to sate it — to him, to the whole world. And that call again, that pull, the same one that had guided him through the tunnels to the Panopticon now guided him towards the throne and a withered corpse that had been trapped there for a hundred and fifty years.

For a moment, Jon had a reprieve — just enough to look at Martin, to really _know _him, a poor substitute for all the time they hadn't gotten together.

And then, everything _hurt. _

Not that it hadn't already, in a muscle and bone way, but this was blood-deep, _soul_-_deep _pain. Hot and cold and electric all at once. He couldn't scream; he couldn't recoil, pinned like an insect to Martin, to the floor. He stared at the simple black stiletto, and their mingled blood pooling on the stone, as Martin whispered in his ear — in his _head _— _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry — _

Jon shut his eyes.

In his head he was drowning, flooded, overstimulated and overwhelmed. The pain was like a fish hook piercing his mind (his blood, his heart) but it was also the only anchor he had against the swirling current. _Anchor. _That was a funny word — an anchor ought to drag him down, drag him deeper, until the pressure of all this knowing scoured away his name and will. It probably wouldn't hurt, though.

_Our world is made of choices, Jon. _Pain or knowledge? Self or void?

The blazing ocean in his head, or the man shivering against him in the dark?

_(The man who clung to a monster made of eyes and light and hunger, held him tight and feared him not, having already made his choice. _It's all right, Jon, I'm sorry, I know it hurts but I'm here, it'll be all right—)

Jon pressed his face into Martin's shoulder, grabbed a handful of Martin's sweat-soaked shirt. _Don't go, _he thought, though he wasn't sure if his lips could form the words. _Don't leave me. _

_I won't. _

The ocean of knowing began to ebb, and Jon let the pain carry him out if it, and into darkness.

* * *

For a while his awareness faded in and out, dopplering like a passing siren: the throb of the pain in their hands was their only metronome. Jon imagined them healing together like this, blood and flesh and steel all knit into one — but no, that was more the Boneturner's style. In between fugues he remembered things, not all of them his own: glimpses of Martin's life, Martin's thoughts, wound through with cold fog but far from truly Lonely. Martin had showed him this, had asked him to look, and he'd showed Martin himself as well, for a moment they drifted through each other like a hazy, sharp-edged dream.

He was aware of voices, of a hand on his arm, but it wasn't Martin and therefore it didn't matter; he shrugged it off and pressed closer, chased the dreams. He was aware, at length, of movement, but Martin was still there, so it was fine. Then he was aware of a singular voice, a voice he knew, which he nevertheless still tried to ignore until it was joined by a painful pinch of his earlobe.

He dragged his eyes open, grudgingly. Basira was leaning over them, and her clothes were not the ones he'd last seen her in. "That's more like it. Come on, Sleeping Beauty."

"Wha." He wasn't sure he was capable of more than monosyllables. He certainly didn't think she deserved them.

"The paramedics are going to be down here any minute," she said. "You need to let them look at that hand. For Martin's sake, if not for your own."

Jon looked around, taking in the unwelcome intrusion of the world. They were no longer in the Panopticon; they were laying on a blanket on the floor of the Archive, under old fluorescent lights. Martin's eyes were still shut, but Jon knew — Knew — he was just dozing, even more overwhelmed than Jon himself.

The stiletto was still passing through both their hands, though it had been slightly padded with gauze. They should probably do something about that.

Jon tried to push away, to create some space — he did. But he only succeeded in shifting himself a few inches before something inside them pulled taut, a fragile and sensitive bit of healed tissue. He gasped; Martin flinched in his sleep, and reached out with his free hand to pull Jon back in.

"Come _on," _Basira moaned.

"Can't," Jon croaked. He reached up to brush the sweaty hair out of Martin's face, to apologize for the disturbance.

"Yes, you can—"

"We _can't," _Jon enunciated. "We — it hurts. Being apart."

He didn't need to look at Basira to know what face she was making as she processed this. "What the hell did you two _do _down there?"

Jon wasn't entirely sure he knew. Or rather, he knew the _what _but didn't understand the _how. _Just that Martin had given him a second chance, another choice, and it was wonderful and terrible and if he thought about it too much he might cry. (Martin leaned his head down, without waking up properly, to press his forehead against Jon's hair.) "I needed an anchor," Jon said, because he had to say something. "We both did. So we made one."

"By stabbing yourselves."

"We had to improvise."

The clatter in the hallway meant EMTs, meant strangers, meant finding a way to talk around all … this. Jon pulled away as far as he comfortably could, which was still practically in Martin's lap. Maybe it would get better with time, or practice, or maybe they'd just get used to the hurt. At least it was a reminder that they were both still here.

At least they could keep going, like this. _. _


End file.
